


The Superhero Wives' Club

by aftershocks



Series: We Bought a Bar [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Complete, post-AoU, refrences to comic canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 00:10:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 17,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2408006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aftershocks/pseuds/aftershocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam, Rhodey, Fury, and Bucky own a bar.  It's a long story, but it comes down to the fact that no one asked for their help to defeat Ultron.  One day, throwing back drinks amongst the super-community, Pepper gets a genius idea: a social club for those who live and deal with the world's favorite heroes.  Bars are for talking about life, right?  And if you end up kissing someone you never meant to, well, these things happen.  </p>
<p>This work is now complete. (And is now revised with a much better ending.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

Natasha didn’t plan to throw her vodka in Clint’s face. What she did plan, however briefly, was to follow the vodka with her glass. Watching the blood drip off Clint’s chin and onto his white shirt was far more cathartic than the alcohol. Clint knew better than to ask questions; he turned and walked out the front door. The other patrons lived in eternal fear of Natasha and kept their mouths shut. Sam Wilson had no such reservations.

“What was that?”

Natasha scowled until he poured her another tumbler of vodka, and drank deeply before replying. “You didn’t hear?"

“I heard pleading followed by shouting. I don’t speak Farsi.” He reached underneath the bar and pulled out a bowl of dates, which he slid across to Natasha. She ignored them.

“He asked me out,” she said. Sam grunted, but did not look up from wiping blood and vodka off the bar. Natasha fingered the silver arrow charm on her necklace. “He wants to take me to dinner.”

“I thought you liked him?”

“Like is… the wrong word, and it’s beside the point.”

“You don’t date.”

Natasha nodded. “I don’t date.”

Sam moved away to serve other customers. Natasha drank and worried the charm between her fingers. Her mind wandered past every time Clint had asked her out, through one sticky night in Dubai, and settled in Stalingrad. She was running her thoughts over the texture of his stubble and the stupid purple shirt he wore the day they met when Sam returned.

“You want a refill?” he asked, pulling her back to the present. Natasha shook her head and put a hand over the top of her glass.

“I should go,” she said. She stood and dug a twenty out of her pocket to cover Clint’s drinks as well as her own, but before she could drop it on the bar, a black AmEx card landed in front of her.

“Sit,” said Pepper. Natasha sat.

Pepper took Clint’s recently vacated barstool and snapped her fingers at Sam. He shuffled off and started mixing two drinks that looked—

“Pink,” said Natasha.

“You need something pink,” said Pepper. Natasha turned her head towards Pepper and raised an eyebrow. Pepper shrugged. “Sam called. He won’t tell me what Clint did, but I’ve lived with Tony Stark long enough to know when a girl needs a Cosmo.”

Sam set their drinks down in front of them and hurried away. He possessed Natasha’s favorite quality in bartenders; he valued his own life more than he valued gossip.

Pepper picked up one of the dates and popped it in her mouth whole. She drank. She fiddled with the lime wedge on the edge of her glass. She did not push.

“He wants to think we can be together,” said Natasha. Pepper was quiet. “The fucked up thing is, I understand. I want it, too. But I’m the woman, so I have to put my foot down. I don’t get to think about playing video games at 3am, or taking his temperature when he gets sick, or buying his hearing aids, or sending him out for tampons, or trying that Nepalese place on the corner. I have to keep us both sane. I have to kick him out of bed at least once a week. I have to deal with his _eyes_ , and that stupid goddamn bull’s-eye shirt he insists on wearing. And then he…” she gestured vaguely, “in Farsi. Who the hell asks someone out in Farsi? And I was so distracted I didn’t even _realize_ it was Farsi.” She threw back her Cosmopolitan. Pepper set her hand on Natasha’s. Natasha grimaced. “I need to get laid,” she concluded.

“Not by Clint,” said Pepper.

“No, definitely not by Clint.”

“Bucky wants to sleep with you,” said Sam.

Both women turned to glare at him. The pride that had colored his face at sneaking up on Natasha was chased away by terror, and he backed away, hands up. “I mean, so did I for a while—”

“They will never find your body,” said Natasha.

“But I don’t anymore! I don’t, Nat, I swear.” She twitched at the use of the nickname. Sam pressed onwards. “He dropped a plate when I called for your order of nachos the other day, and he never shuts up about how great you were about the whole Winter Soldier thing.”

“I punched him when he came back,” said Natasha. “Steve almost had my head.”

“Exactly. He likes that you didn’t coddle him.”

Pepper chuckled. “He’s perfect for you.”

Natasha straightened up on her stool and pushed her glass away. “Shut up, both of you.”

“He’s cuter than Barton,” said Sam. Pepper stared at him. Natasha made a mental note to collect $10 from Tony. “Better abs.”

“No,” said Pepper and Natasha in unison.

“Fine. Cuter, though. And he has Steve to bitch about. Between Cap and Clint, you won’t even get around to sharing personal details until the third date.”

Natasha huffed. Pepper’s eyes lit up. “I have an idea,” she said. Sam cupped his hands around his groin, his eyes wide, and glanced between the women. Pepper laughed; Natasha snickered, but the humor never reached her eyes. Sam gulped.

“Tell Bucky we’ll be here tonight at 9,” said Pepper. “We’re starting a superhero wives’ club.”


	2. The Inagural Meeting

“I vote for whiskey.”  
  
“You’re outvoted.”  
  
“Well, actually—”  
  
“I have Tony’s credit card, I choose the drinks.”  
  
Natasha and Bucky shared a look but sipped their margaritas anyway. None of them, Pepper included, were the type to go in for fruity cocktails, but according to The Book, anything harder than a piña colada was sacrilege, and none of them dared defy The Book.  
  
Natasha flipped to a random page in her copy of The Book and skimmed down the page. “Did you know,” she said, “that if the astronauts died on a mission, their wives got a survivor’s benefit? If Clint dies, what do I get? His old pizza?”  
  
“It’s better than the shield.” Bucky brightened. “Although it would make a really nice coffee table.”  
  
“Don’t pretend, Barnes. You’d pick up the shield and wiggle your cute little butt into the suit and fight for freedom and America. Just like Pepper would become Iron Lady and start kicking asses.” Bucky grinned at the use of the word ‘cute’ in relation to his butt. Pepper harrumphed. “Continue kicking asses,” Natasha amended. “And you’d be loaded.”  
  
“It’s a shame I love Tony.”  
  
“I don’t. Say the word, Potts, and he’ll be gone before he can so much as make a snarky remark. I won’t kill Steve, though.”  
  
“Can we talk about my butt some more?”  
  
The place was almost empty. The dinner crowd had been gone for hours, and those who gathered for the night had trickled out over the last twenty minutes. Pepper, Bucky, and Natasha sat at the bar; Sam refilled their drinks without being asked, and dropped hints about how horrible Bucky was for taking the night off; Rhodey sat in one of the window booths, plowing through a pile of onion rings that hadn’t been sold; and a soft clinking emanated from the kitchen, where Fury was washing dishes. Bucky was wasted. Natasha thumbed her book, and destroyed it in small ways: she broke the spine, folded down the corners of pages, rubbed salty fingers across the cover. The nachos they ordered at 10 o’clock were gone, but The Book would remember them. It was a kind of voodoo; carve the night into permanence, and maybe it could make a difference.  
  
“I would want the t-shirt,” said Natasha.  
  
The other two looked at each other and then at Natasha, questions tugging at the corner of their eyes.  
  
“If he died, I would want the bull’s-eye t-shirt,” she said.  
  
Pepper sighed and wrapped an arm around Natasha’s shoulders. It was something a sister would do and it made Natasha uncomfortable, but she did not shy away for fear of losing Pepper’s understanding. Pepper hated Tony as much as she hated Clint, and loved him as much, and spent as many hours plotting his murder, and would probably keep something stupid, too, like the robot that couldn’t do anything right.  
  
Bucky was nothing like Pepper. “What if you die?” he asked.  
  
Natasha cleared her throat and shrugged Pepper’s arm off. “If I die, Clint gets my knife and all my DVDs. You can have my panties, but you have to show them to Steve and record his reaction for posterity.”  
  
“What does Pepper get?”  
  
Natasha sized Pepper up. “Pepper gets all my guns, and license to murder Clint and Sam if either of them attempts to build a shrine in my memory.”  
  
“What if I build a shrine in your memory?”  
  
“She gets to kill you _and_ castrate you. Not necessarily in that order.”  
  
Bucky guffawed. “Rude. I sacrificed my sanity for this world. I deserve some respect.”  
  
“You sacrificed your sanity because you were too dumb to hold onto a train car,” said Natasha, but her eyes softened. “You almost sacrificed your life for your idiot best friend several times.”  
  
“And my fashion sense,” said Bucky. He tripped over the words. Natasha smiled and tapped on his prosthetic arm.  
  
“This is pretty cool, though.”  
  
Bucky’s eyes turned dark. The air felt cold against Natasha’s skin. Beside her, Pepper shivered. Natasha inched a hand towards Bucky’s drink and pulled it away. His eyes followed his drink, though they were unfocused, and she took the moment of distraction as an opportunity to place a hand on the side of his face. “Barnes,” she said.  
  
Bucky blinked and shook his head. Out of the corner of her eye, Natasha saw Rhodey put his gun away. “It’s not your fault,” she said.  
  
“I was a villain.”  
  
“You were a victim.” Natasha waited to remove her hand from his cheek until Bucky’s shoulders relaxed. She passed him his drink. He pushed it aside.  
  
“He’s still trying to save me,” said Bucky.  
  
Natasha couldn’t lie to him, so she sat in silence. But Pepper reached out and grasped Bucky’s hand. “Steve is always going to need saving, Bucky. He’s stronger now, but that doesn’t mean he’s not an idiot,” she said.  
  
They finished their drinks and scooped up their books. One by one, they headed home. On the way out, Pepper pulled a fourth copy of The Book out of her bag and dropped it in front of Rhodey. It was _The Astronaut Wives’ Club._  
  
It was an invitation.


	3. Pepper

The seed for their little club was planted many months before its inaugural meeting. After the invasion of New York, Rhodey and Pepper got to Stark Tower as fast as they could. They waited for Tony long enough that Pepper’s tears gave way to a hot fury that possessed her to pound her fists against Rhodey’s chest until he dragged her to the penthouse couch for a heart-to-heart about Tony’s stupidity and heroism. When the Avengers returned, Pepper rushed to meet them in the tower lobby. Her rage had cooled; when Tony handed her a paper sack of chicken shwarma, she kissed him until Bruce blushed and cleared his throat.

As healing as they were, talks with Rhodey were nothing new. It was not until Natasha pulled her aside the next day that Pepper began to realize how desperately they all needed someone in whom to confide.

“Stark’s an idiot,” said Natasha. Said idiot was across the penthouse kitchen, flashing a dopey grin at Pepper. Pepper pulled Natasha farther into the corner and lowered her voice.

“A veritable moron. So?”

“I need some advice. If Tony was being particularly stupid and grandiose out of some imagined sense of danger, what would you do?”

“Slap him.”

“And if that didn’t work?”

Pepper fell silent. She watched the men across the kitchen. Bruce was the calm at the eye of the storm, sipping herbal tea. Tony lit sparklers and firecrackers in the corner. Steve added to a three-foot high stack of pancakes. Cups flew over Bruce’s head; Clint and Thor were in some kind of war, and, judging by the shards of glass and porcelain clinging to Thor’s beard, Clint was winning. A mug smashed against Thor’s chest and Clint turned to toss a sloppy smile to Natasha, who cringed.

“You love him?” Natasha pressed her lips into a thin line. “But you can’t be with him. You have to be honest.”

“He doesn’t do well with honesty.”

“You can’t lead him on, Natasha.”

Natasha nodded, once, and then crossed the kitchen to help Steve with breakfast.

 

They texted, Pepper on the newest iPhone and Natasha on a scrambled Razr she kept for personal use. Sometimes it was deep, but usually it was frivolous; _Tony hired a Yoga instructor for Bruce; I think Steve’s friend likes me; the tower has a rooftop pool now; JK, caught the friend staring at Steve’s ass._ When Natasha was in town, they grabbed drinks or brunch. Pepper told Tony she was at board meetings. Natasha told SHIELD that she was tracking down important leads.

They never talked about work, or the men, or anything except shoes and television and what shade of lipstick was best for taking out international crime bosses. If Natasha had any issues with Clint, Pepper didn’t hear about them. In turn, she didn’t share anything beyond Tony’s latest schemes for renovating Avengers Tower. They both knew that it was only a matter of time before something pushed the conversations into more emotional territory, but the idea terrified them, so they skirted around the issue, laughing instead of crying and bantering instead of confessing.

It was so inevitable that when Pepper found Natasha with mascara running down her checks and Clint’s blood drying on her knuckles, she was more relieved than surprised. The violence was unexpected but the emotion was not—in fact, Pepper had planned for it. The books had been sitting in her closet for three months. Frightened as she was of confronting her feelings in any form other than a gigantic fight with Tony, Pepper was first and foremost an organizer. If they were going to talk about their hearts, Pepper was determined that they would do it in a structured way. Preferably with a lot of alcohol. Because she was Pepper, the first meeting went according to plan. Natasha and Bucky opened up, Pepper invited Rhodey to join the group, and Sam was beginning to warm to the idea of hosting a weekly bash-the-hotties session at his bar.

Because she was Pepper, things stopped going according to plan one week later.


	4. Bucky Cooks and Things Start to go to Hell

Sam and Bucky opened the restaurant for lunch at 11 every day. This entailed cleaning and prep work that started at five in the morning, because Fury insisted that everything, including the bread, be homemade. They were both too afraid of Fury to argue, and Bucky thought of it as a small price to pay for everything he had done for Hydra. Thus, Bucky baked the bread and Sam slept in. At nine, he arrived with Rhodey and a pan of muffins for Bucky.

On Monday, Sam made carrot cake muffins and smothered them with cream cheese frosting. He regretted this when he dropped them upon entering the kitchen, and they landed top-down with a squishing noise. Frosting splattered everything in a three-foot radius.

Bucky was smiling.

Not an of-course-I’m-alright smile, not an I-need-to-be-here-for-Steve smile. A genuine, toothy, animal grin. 

“What the hell are you on?”

Bucky turned and tossed some carrots into a pot of soup of the stove behind him. The smile did not fade. Rhodey walked into the kitchen, caught sight of Bucky, and inched back out. Sam stood frozen and watched as Bucky chopped up celery and parsnips and threw them into the pot. He followed them with a generous portion of curry powder and a pinch of anise. Whoever ordered chicken noodle soup was in for a surprise.

Sam cleared his throat. “Buck? A little clarification?”

Bucky faced Sam and shrugged. He glanced at the remains of his breakfast on the floor. “Those were my favorite, too,” he said.

“Yeah. The smile, Buck,” Sam said.

Bucky held up a slip of paper. “Natasha’s number.”

Sam vaulted across the room and snatched the paper from Bucky’s fingers. Bucky didn’t have a chance to react before Sam turned on the garbage disposal on and stuffed Natasha’s number down the drain to be eviscerated. 

“What the hell was that?” 

“It’s for your own good. If Barton knows you have her number, he will kill you and skin you and wear you as a cloak, and if you are lucky, it will be in that order,” said Sam.

“You’re just jealous,” said Bucky.

Sam laughed. “Bucky, I’ve been trying to get into Steve’s pants for six months. You can marry Natasha for all I care.” He held up a silencing finger in anticipation of Bucky’s response. “Don’t get all uppity about Steve. You know the only reason you haven’t tapped that is that you’re a coward.”

Bucky made a face. “I don’t want to sleep with Steve. I just don’t want _you_ to sleep with him.”

“You’re just jealous,” said Sam, mocking Bucky’s tone.

“No, you’re just a slut. Steve wouldn’t do well with a one night stand. He’s still waiting for the right dance partner.”

“Who says I want a one night stand?”

Bucky’s voice climbed an octave. “And who says I’m stupid enough to mess with Barton?” 

Bucky returned to the soup. The wooden spoon clanked against the side of the pot as he stirred, fast enough to create a small maelstrom. Sam went to the fridge and took out a dozen hard-cooked eggs, a jar of mayonnaise, and a bottle of Dijon mustard. On the counter next to the stove, he began chopping the eggs. 

“Anything to do with Natasha is you crossing Barton. Either he’ll get brotherly and beat you up, or he’ll get possessive and murder you. He was in here yesterday, and the way he was talking, the next time Stark mentions Nat’s looks, Barton’s going to tear his balls off. Texting her would be like poking a Kaiju with a stick,” said Sam.

“I’m not Steve. I know how guys get about dames they think are theirs, and I understand subtlety. It won’t be a problem.” He gestured at the pot. “According to Pepper, Natasha loves curry.”

Sam was a soldier; he knew a hopeless battle when he saw one. He returned to making egg salad.

 

Natasha came in alone at noon. She and Clint were “taking a break.” (Pepper had been quick to point out how much this phrasing made it sound like Clint and Natasha were dating. Regardless of awkward connotation, there wasn’t a better term. Clint and Natasha worked like this: together, breathing as one, a unit, silver charms dangling and reminding them of better days; or curled on opposite sides of a hundred-foot high brick wall.) The other Avengers were banned from entering.

She drank one glass of scotch and ordered the soup and a turkey sandwich. Fury was plating, so Rhodey had it out to her within five minutes. He, Fury, and Bucky gathered at the kitchen door and peered through the window; Sam stopped polishing glasses. Natasha ate a spoonful of soup.

Natasha set her spoon down and examined the sandwich. She broke off a corner of the bread—cranberry walnut, a specialty of Bucky’s that he rarely paired with turkey, because Sam and Rhodey thought it was weird—and nibbled on it. She swallowed and lifted the top piece to examine the inside of her sandwich. Bucky realized then that the drizzle of gravy he added while Fury wasn’t looking might be overkill.

Natasha scooped up her sandwich, threw a ten dollar bill on the table, and walked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can personally vouch for the genius of curried chicken noodle soup and cranberry-walnut turkey sandwiches. And if that doesn't convince you, Natasha likes them. Go forth and cook while I write.


	5. Some Illusions are shattered

_What did you do? – PP_

_I made a sandwich. It’s my job. I was under the impression people still ate those in this century. –BB_

_She has the turkey sandwich twice a week. Did you think she wouldn’t notice? –PP_

_This isn’t about the sandwich, is it? –BB_   
_You do not want me to start on the soup. –PP_

It was 8 o’clock. The club met in an hour, and, as far as Bucky could tell, he was going to die.

_What did she say? –BB_

The timer on the cutting board beeped. Bucky set his phone on the counter. He pulled a tray of cinnamon-sugar bar nuts out of the oven, set them on top of the stove, and scraped them off the parchment paper with a spatula. While they cooled, he sliced potatoes for French fries. His phone stayed silent. His stomach twisted into knots. 

Bucky finished the potatoes and was dividing the nuts between seven glass bowls when Sam poked his head into the kitchen. Bucky whirled around and threw a steak knife at him. Sam dove to the side and the knife embedded itself into the doorframe. The blood drained from Bucky’s face.

“Sam, I didn’t mean to. Are you—?”

“I’m fine,” said Sam. He picked himself up from the floor. “Are you okay?”

Bucky bit his tongue and threw the pieces of potato into the deep fryer. Droplets of oil splashed up and clung to his face; he leaned into the burn and closed his eyes. Behind him, Sam pulled the knife out of the doorframe with a muted “ooph.” Bucky stared at the churning oil while Sam put the knife away.

“Bucky,” said Sam. When Bucky didn’t answer, Sam rested his hand on Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky pulled away.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.

“You won’t. I startled you. I should know better.” Bucky grimaced. Sam sighed. “Not because it’s you, Frosty. My mom taught me that I shouldn’t sneak up on anyone in the kitchen. I got a couple measuring cups and wooden spoons to the head before it stuck.”

“Frosty?” Bucky’s tone arched with incredulity. 

“Winter Soldier? Frosty? Because winter is—never mind.” 

Bucky’s phone buzzed. Sam and Bucky reached for it at the same time and ended up wrestling for it, and despite Bucky’s metal arm and overall badass-ness, Sam held the phone aloft in the end. Bucky stretched for it, got a knee to the stomach, and backed away, grumbling.

Sam’s eyes skimmed over the message several times. Each time, his eyebrows climbed higher. Bucky was preparing to tackle him when he finally spoke. “Apparently, Natasha has, and I quote, ‘a slight kink for men who know how to use curry powder.’”   
Bucky fainted.

Fury managed to revive him up with some well-applied acupressure and a great deal of yelling, but not before the fries had burned.

 

Bucky and Sam spent the twenty minutes before Natasha and Pepper arrived primping. Fury grumbled about slackers, Rhodey entertained customers at the bar and raked in as many tips in twenty minutes as Sam had all night, and Bucky worried about his hair. Sam, with his crew cut, was no expert in hair presentation, but Pepper was angry and Natasha was, for obvious reasons, not a great choice, so he did his best. Once they got Bucky’s hair to lie down flat, they discussed eyeliner. A poll of the restaurant showed five in favor of black, seven in favor of gold, one (Johnny Storm) in favor of the Winter Soldier look, and twelve who wanted to be left alone to eat in peace. They were about to start a collection of any and all eye makeup the patrons happened to have when Fury declared that Bucky should leave off the eyeliner unless he had changed his mind about sleeping with Cap. Apparently, he knew about all of his agent’s little kinks. Bucky let the matter drop. Sam stole a tube of liquid liner from Carol Danvers and made a dash for the bathroom mirror. The two of them chose a booth, asked a scowling Fury to make them some onion rings, and waited.

Pepper entered first and shot Bucky a look that could have killed Red Skull. He wilted and scrunched into the corner of the booth. Pepper slid in next to him. Natasha took the seat opposite and looked Sam up and down.

“Nice,” she said.

“You think?”

“The eyeliner could use a little work, but yeah, I think Steve would be all over you.”

Sam grinned. Bucky sunk further down into his seat. Pepper elbowed him in the ribs. 

“I actually wanted to talk about that,” said Sam. Bucky welcomed the distraction. If Sam took the floor, it meant that Natasha would be _looking_ at Sam instead of _not looking_ at Bucky, and that made all the difference in the world. “Steve’s kind of oblivious, but—”

“You flirted. You made him breakfast,” said Natasha.

“Well, exactly. No one’s that out of it, right? I know there wasn’t a lot of guy-on-guy stuff in the 40s, but… I dunno, he just doesn’t seem to get it.”

“Ew,” said Bucky. Pepper shushed him, and gestured for Sam to continue.

“So anyway, I was wondering if someone needed to fill him in,” said Sam. Natasha gave him a blank look. “Someone like Tony, maybe.”

“That is such a bad idea,” said Pepper. Sam looked hurt. “Not because he doesn’t need the Talk, but because Tony’s not the best person to give it to him. He gets really awkward about that stuff.”

“Tony Stark gets awkward about sex?” asked Natasha.

“Only if he has to talk about it,” said Pepper.

“Again, ew,” said Bucky.

“Okay, so not Tony. One of you could do it,” said Sam.

“I’m not giving him the sex talk, and I don’t think Natasha should, either,” said Pepper.

“Hey, why shouldn’t I?”

“Steve doesn’t need to hear about flavored lube. Or glow-in-the-dark condoms.” 

“Fair. So?”

Everyone looked at Bucky. Bucky raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I did it once. If he doesn’t remember, that’s not my fault.”

“We’re not talking about sex with girls,” said Sam.

“Yeah, neither am I.”

Pepper went red and started stacking the remaining onion rings into a tower. Sam opened his mouth, closed it again, and took a long drink of his beer. Natasha plucked an onion ring off the stack. She looked Bucky in the eyes and bit down on it.

“Being gay is nothing new. Hell, neither is being…” he waved at Sam. “Playing for both teams.”

“Bisexual,” said Natasha. 

“Right. Just because Steve couldn’t date guys in our day doesn’t mean he didn’t want to. Someone had to look out for him.”

Sam recovered his voice. “How did _you_ know?”

“We had books,” Bucky deadpanned. Natasha smiled. His stomach did a back handspring. “The point being, Steve isn’t ignorant. He’s a skinny kid rattling around in that big body, and he still has a hard time believing anyone besides Peggy could be attracted to him.”

“But he’s _Steve,_ ” said Pepper.

Bucky shrugged. “Exactly.”

“Is that why he didn’t notice Hill hitting on him the other day?” asked Rhodey. He slid in next to Pepper, crushing Bucky against the wall. Bucky shifted so that his metal arm wasn’t digging into Pepper’s side; it clanged against the table, and he winced. Everyone except Natasha looked at him.

“I thought the low-cut shirt was more an open invitation than a targeted strike,” she said.

Rhodey looked away from Bucky and smirked. “Tony’s with Pepper. Banner is still in love. You and Clint do you and Clint. Thor has Jane. That leaves Cap.”

“Clint doesn’t own me.”

The conversation of other diners grew louder. Bucky could hear his heartbeat against his ribs, its usual steady thrum interrupted by hiccupping palpitations. Someone in the kitchen dropped a dish. Natasha glanced around the table, punctuating the tinkle of porcelain against tile.

 

“So,” said Pepper. “I was thinking about painting my suit black and silver. Thoughts?”

“Those are my colors,” said Rhodey. It grew quiet again, the five of them mired in the remains of an eternal truth shattered into something less perfect: Natasha-and-Clint was, in fact, Natasha and Clint.

“I had a thought,” said Bucky, after the onion rings dwindled and they emptied the beers and there was nothing left to do but twiddle their thumbs and stare at the floor. Pepper drew back her elbow to jab him in the ribs, but Bucky grabbed it with his good hand and squeezed. “Solid black, splattered with neon. Modern art, flying through the sky.” Pepper rolled her eyes, but let her elbow drop.

“Or, if you want to scare the crap out of Loki next time he shows up, just paint it like Fury’s eye. All white and veiny and shit. Throw in some pus for effect,” said Rhodey.

The tension broke and they could all laugh again, and Bucky could look at Natasha without losing track of gravity or time, and because she was no one’s property, she looked right back.


	6. 3 Conversations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes ASL. Because the syntax and structure of ASL can be hard for non-speakers to interpret, the transcription of signs in this chapter is designed to convey meaning rather than as a direct translation. I did this purely to make this chapter easier on readers who do not speak ASL. Thank you for your understanding.

Natasha threw Pepper a beer. “We’re not talking about it,” she said.

Pepper tucked her legs up under her and patted the other half of the loveseat. Natasha rolled her eyes but sunk down. Her eyelids fluttered shut. 

“I’m glad Clint made you buy this thing,” said Pepper.

“It’s lime green leather. I hate him.”

“It’s comfortable; you have to give him that.”

“You know what else was comfortable? My armchair.”

“Hmm. Do you have any ice cream?”

“There’s some tiramisu gelato in the freezer. I think there’s part of a pizza in the fridge, too, but Clint ordered it so it might be pineapple.” 

Pepper leveraged herself out of her seat and crossed behind the loveseat into the kitchenette. She rummaged in the freezer for the gelato and then stuck her head in the refrigerator.

“Pepperoni,” said Pepper. Natasha grunted. Pepper grabbed the pizza, the gelato, two spoons, and a couple more beers, and headed back to the loveseat. She dumped everything on the table. Natasha reached for the pizza, hesitated, and picked up the gelato instead. She cradled it to her chest.

“You have to share,” said Pepper. Natasha pulled a knife out from between the couch cushions. Pepper shrugged, grabbed a slice of pizza, and said around a large mouthful, “Bruce is cooking tonight. Don’t spoil your dinner.”

“I didn’t realize I was signing up for a foster mother as well as a best friend,” said Natasha.

“He’s making chicken parmesan.”

Natasha rolled her eyes but put the gelato down. “Fine. You notice that I haven’t cooked once?”

“You hate cooking,” said Pepper.

“True, but with that group, I’m surprised I didn’t get a blender or an apron for my birthday.”

“Tony got a fist in the face last time he suggested I step in the kitchen, and Steve and Bruce like to cook,” said Pepper. “When is your birthday, anyway?”

“Classified.”

“Jesus.” Pepper took the gelato from Natasha and passed her the rest of the pizza. Natasha flicked on the TV, surfed around until she found What’s Your Number, and muted it. She and Pepper watched in silence while Chris Evans paraded around, naked except for a dish towel.

“So what about you isn’t classified?”

“My food preferences. What I watch on TV. Possibly the brand of tampon I use, though I’m not sure about that one,” said Natasha.

“o.b?”

“o.b.”

“Have you ever noticed that Steve looks remarkably like Chris Evans?”

Natasha frowned. “I try not to think about it while I’m admiring Chris Evans’s naked body,” she said.

“Fair,” said Pepper. And then a little later, when the movie grew boring and the gelato was runny: “So, you really have a thing for super soldiers, huh?” 

“Pepper,” said Natasha. Her voice carried a warning edge.

“No. You’re not avoiding this,” said Pepper.

“I don’t—”

“No. I respect your right to sleep with whomever you want, but you cannot keep both Clint and Bucky on strings to reel in at your convenience.” 

“That wasn’t my intention.”

“Regardless of intention, it’s what you’re doing. You have to let one of them down, or both of them.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes you can, Natasha. Neither one is your mission anymore.”

Pepper passed Natasha the gelato. 

 

The super soldier serum enhanced Steve’s eyesight 137%. His visual acuity was such that he could spot the freckles on an enemy’s cheeks across 100 yards of smoky battlefield. The result of this modification to his vision was that Steve was not, contrary to popular belief, blind. Nor was he naïve, ignorant of his own appealing qualities, or heterosexual, though none of those had anything to do with the serum.

He knew Sam had a thing for him.

He referred to the tension between them “a thing,” because “he wants to have a lot of sex with me” sounded… very not-Steve, in the same way that the condoms and lube sitting on his bedside table were not-Steve. According to the stolen credit card nestled beside them, they were Tony’s.

Steve did not steal the credit card. Bucky did.

Bucky sat at the foot of Steve’s bed, grunting at a Nintendo DS that Clint bought him on his second day back. Steve was stretched out, feet resting in Bucky’s lap. On a pad of watercolor paper, he sketched uniforms with a falcon emblem on the shoulder. Bucky whooped. Steve glanced up at him.

“I caught a Plusle,” Bucky explained.

“Hmm,” said Steve. 

Bucky closed his DS and studied Steve. He let his eyes linger on his friend’s jaw and on the pecs he was still getting used to. “Have you ever considered having sex?”

“I hate to break this to you, Buck, but I have in fact considered having sex on numerous occasions.”

“No, I mean with me.”

Steve’s hand stilled, but he did not look up from the paper. “I’m flattered,” he said.

“I’m not offering,” said Bucky. Steve shrugged. “Look, it was just something Sam said. He thinks I’m jealous.”

“Are you?”

Bucky rolled the seam of Steve’s sock between his thumb and pointer finger. Steve wiggled his toes. Undeterred, Bucky let go of the sock and picked at the stitches on the hem of Steve’s jeans. “Kind of,” he said.

“I have a bed.” Bucky crossed his arms, and Steve laughed. “Bucky, you’re my best friend,” he said.

“I know,” said Bucky.

“I’ve had a crush on you for 90 years.”

“I kn—wait, _what?_ ”

“There’s a reason I didn’t tell you,” said Steve.

“Yeah. Right. Friendship and stuff.” Bucky stared at the bedspread until Steve nudged him in the chest with his foot. 

“Hey,” said Steve. Bucky quirked his mouth into a half smile.

“Just promise to use the condoms I got you,” he said.

 

The apartment was ominously silent when Clint unlocked the door. Before he did anything else, he removed his hearing aids and shoved them in his pocket; whatever was coming, he didn’t want to hear it. Then he pushed the door open with his foot and stuck his hand, clutching a paper bag from Natasha’s favorite bakery, into the apartment. When his hand did not explode, fall off, or catch fire, he edged inside.

There was a gunshot; Clint hit the floor.

For one beautiful moment, Clint thought the bullet might save him a lecture. Then Natasha yanked him to his knees by his hair, which was hot until she started signing. 

_Did you think I wouldn’t notice that you’re not wearing your hearing aids?_

_I hoped so,_ he signed.

_You’re an idiot._

_Did you want something?_

_To talk._

_So talk, Natasha._

She looked like she wanted to put a bullet through his skull.

_What you did was over the line._

_Sorry. Did I need to ask your father first? I forgot dinner was so scandalous._

_We have been over this, Clint._

_2 months ago!_

_Did you think it would change?_

_I am an optimist._

She rolled her eyes and pointed to the loveseat. Clint scrambled to his feet, took the remaining floor space in five bounds, and vaulted over the back of the loveseat to settle on the green cushions. He realized he was still clutching the white paper sack, and set it on the coffee table beside an empty gelato carton and half a dozen beer bottles. Natasha sat down beside him. She slid in close to press her lips to his throat; he felt, rather than heard, her whispered words.

“We can’t be together, Clint,” said her lips dancing across his skin.

“Jesus, Nat, I’m not asking you to marry me.” She shifted away. He risked a look, and saw that there was no anger her fear in her eyes, only bemusement. Clint realized that he was compensating for his worsened hearing by speaking too loudly, and signed _sorry_. She leaned back in.

“You’re asking me to love you,” she said.

“No, I’m asking you to say what we both know.”

She sighed, a puff of air against his skin. Her head dropped onto his shoulder and the tension seemed to bleed out of her. She wound her limbs around his body, which accommodated her with the ease of an old lover, though it had only known her curves so intimately one time. He rubbed small circles in her back while she shuddered, her breath coming short and shallow. Her hand drifted to his chest—Clint memorized the feeling of it settled warm above his heart. When Natasha lifted it, ice spread though his veins until her fingers skated across his hourglass charm and up his throat and his blood burned white hot.

“ _Natalia,_ ” he said. She pressed a finger to his mouth and touched her lips to his neck once more.

“I can’t,” she said. 

They did not move apart. They sat there, Clint-and-Natasha, with the weight of a thousand lives on their shoulders, and they did not weep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course he knows her real name. 
> 
> Also, this bears repeating: This chapter includes ASL. Because the syntax and structure of ASL can be hard for non-speakers to interpret, the transcription of signs in this chapter is designed to convey meaning rather than as a direct translation. I did this purely to make this chapter easier on readers who do not speak ASL. Thank you for your understanding.


	7. Deadpool makes some Friends

Natasha brought a… friend is not the right word, nor is enemy, associate, acquaintance, or peer. Natasha brought Deadpool to the next meeting. When he squeezed into the booth next to Pepper, she buried her head in her hands. Rhodey pulled out a gun, Sam took pictures with his phone, and Bucky looked confused. Natasha smiled. Deadpool ordered nachos.

“He needs to talk,” said Natasha, by way of explanation. 

Pepper coughed. “About what, killing people?”

“He wouldn’t bother with us for that, he’d just talk to Natasha,” said Rhodey.

“We ran out of assassination methods to discuss,” said Natasha.

“Bullshit,” said Sam.

Fury brought the nachos. Deadpool lifted the edge of his mask above his mouth and went to town on them while everyone but Bucky and Natasha stared at his scarred, pockmarked chin.

“So,” said Rhodey.

“Wade is having boy problems,” said Natasha.

“He”— Sam pointed at the aforementioned merc and wiggled his finger for emphasis—“is having _boy problems_? Boy problems that take precedence over being a psychopathic murderer?”

“And over the scars,” said Wade. Everyone stared at their hands; he shrugged. “Just sayin’ what everyone is thinkin’.”

“Do you people even _do_ boy problems?”

“You are one of ‘us people,’ _Falcon,_ ” said Natasha.

“I don’t have a SHIELD file,” said Sam.

“And neither do I, anymore. But Fury still sees you when you’re sleeping like some demonic Santa Claus,” said Wade.

A shudder coursed through the group. Natasha kicked Wade under the table. “Boy problems,” she prompted.

“I dunno, I’m not supposed to talk about them,” he said.

“Tell the boxes that I will drop-kick all of you across the country unless you talk.”

Wade had an animated argument under his breath. His hands flew in conflicting gestures and he smacked himself in the head several times. Finally, his hands stilled and he nodded to Natasha.

“I want to get in Spider-Man’s suit,” he said. He giggled. “Yes, to touch his butt and other things.”

“I imagine that you, like other men, have been relying strictly on telepathy? Talking does wonders,” said Pepper.

“We talk! Well, I talk. Mostly he punches me.”

“How romantic,” Rhodey deadpanned.

“He’s just so…”

“Hot,” said Sam.

“Muscular,” said Natasha.

“ _Flexible,_ ” said Pepper.

“…perfect,” said Wade. He laced his fingers and set his chin atop his hands. Despite the mask, he bore an uncanny resemblance to a smitten schoolgirl. “And bangable.”

“Alright, anyone at this table who is not sexually frustrated, raise your hand,” said Sam.

Natasha and Pepper both put a hand up and high-fived across the table. Bucky turned bright red. The corners of Sam’s mouth turned down and he rumpled his brow. “I understand Pepper, she has Tony, but Natasha”—

“Tony isn’t responsible for my sexual satisfaction,” said Pepper; she and Natasha high-fived again. Bucky took on the appearance of a seasick tomato. 

“I could give Stark an anatomy lesson, if that would help,” said Wade.

Bucky slapped his hands onto the table and stood up. “I’m going to get a beer. Does anyone want anything?”

A chorus of “beer” rang around the table. Natasha stood. “I’ll help you carry them,” she said. They edged out of the booth, Natasha past Rhodey and Bucky past Pepper and Deadpool. Deadpool regarded Bucky’s rear with a smirk.

“Not bad, Solder,” said Deadpool.

Bucky pressed his lips together.

The table fell into a rousing debate about the relative merits of the back-ends of several heroes.

Since his return, Bucky had worked hard to adjust to the vast variety of brews available in the modern beer market. It paid off: Natasha watched, impressed, as he ordered four different microbrews, a Budweiser for Rhodey, and a Guinness for Deadpool.

“You know all of our orders,” she said.

“It’s in your files.” He tapped his head to indicate which files. “Beer preferences, lunch orders, favorite colors, fighting styles…”

“Remind me not to piss you off,” said Natasha.

“I don’t know, Nat, last time we fought I thought you might take my other arm off.”

They both flinched. 

Hank Pym, who was covering for Sam, brought their beers.

“Shall we?” 

“I don’t need Wilson’s confirmation to know that either you or I have a nice ass, Barnes. They’ll be fine without their drinks for a few more minutes,” said Natasha.  
Bucky shrugged, thumbed the cap off his beer, and took a deep drink. He held it in his mouth for a moment, considering. Once he swallowed, he said, “Hmm. Hoppy. This is the last time I ask Steve for a recommendation. You know, Natasha, in my day”—

“A _dame_ wouldn’t say the word ass? It’s not 1940, Bucky.”

Bucky ignored her. “In my day, women, with the notable exception of Peggy, were not so openly self-assured.”

“I’m sorry; did I uproot your misogynistic upbringing?” 

“It’s refreshing.” 

Natasha swirled her beer. “Bucky…”

“I know you’re with Clint.”

“I’m not, actually.”

“Oh. I thought… maybe…” he made several complex shapes with his fingers.

“No.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t do relationships,” she said.

“Maybe you just haven’t found the right dance partner.”

The look she gave him sent chills down his spine. “Don’t push it, Barnes,” she said. She stood, swept up the beers in a single armful, and strode back to the table.

“Dammit,” said Bucky.


	8. Steve the Artist

Steve started sketching Falcon costumes after he saw Sam fly for the first time. It took months to design something he was comfortable with, and weeks more to perfect the drawing. The final product was fanciful, with wings feathered not with metal but with brown and white down, but also utilitarian; the body suit was streamlined and layered with microfiber for warmth, with Kevlar plates embedded in the fabric. He had even gone so far as to enlist Tony’s help on the technical specs. 

Steve slipped the finished drawing into a plastic sleeve. He did not sign it. The drawing was good enough to earn him at least a heavy make out session, but he wasn’t looking for a one-night stand. Better to watch Sam smile and ponder than to bet his heart on Sam’s ever-changing love life.

Steve glanced over the drawing one last time and ducked out the front door of his apartment.

Each residential level of Stark tower, except for the penthouse on the top floor, consisted of two apartments joined by a communal lounge area. Steve was surprised to find Clint stretched out on a couch in their shared space, reading an old issue of Batman.

“Did Natasha kick you out of her place?”

“I left,” said Clint. He gripped the comic book more tightly; Steve heard the pages rumple, and winced.

“Ah,” said Steve. He started across the room towards the elevator, but was stopped by the wave of nausea that passed over him at the idea of abandoning Clint at a difficult time. He turned back. “Are you okay?”

“Is that for Sam?” Clint pointed at the piece of art in Steve’s hands. Steve blushed. “Go. Give it to him,” said Clint.

Steve waited until Clint gave him a small nod, and punched the elevator button.

The 12-block walk to Sam’s apartment was the most nerve-wracking thing Steve had done since the war until he arrived at Sam’s door. He set the drawing on Sam’s welcome mat, fidgeted, and then knelt to scoop it up again. Halfway there, he changed his mind and rose back to standing. His watch beeped; he recalled that he was supposed to meet Coulson for drinks. He did not move. 

At five past, Steve raised his hand to knock. At seven past, he swallowed and drew his hand back to his chest.

He would have stood there all day, but he heard footsteps on the other side of the door. Steve panicked, spun, tripped over his own feet, caught himself against Sam’s drainpipe, and bolted.


	9. Bucky the Relationship Counselor

Sam taped the drawing above his prep station so he could look at it while he chopped vegetables. He prepped absentmindedly, his eyes re-tracing the details he memorized instead of making a trip to the grocery store the day he found it on his doormat. Instead of the tomatoes he was meant to be slicing for lunch, Sam diced a pound each of celery, onions, and green bell peppers. He was so absorbed in the drawing that he didn’t notice Bucky right behind him until Bucky spoke.

“The Holy Trinity?”

Sam jumped, recovered, hummed an affirmation.

“The tomatoes?”

“Shit,” said Sam. He dropped the knife. “Sorry.”

Bucky followed Sam’s gaze to the drawing. He grinned. “It’s fine. Gumbo’s better than salad, anyway. Screw the tomatoes.”

“I was going to make Jambalaya.”

“Perfect,” said Bucky. Sam stared at him, the corners of his mouth quirked down in confusion. “We don’t have a set menu, so relax. You were distracted. It happens,” said Bucky.

Sam’s cheeks colored. “It was stupid,” he said.

“The guy you like designed you a gorgeous suit, Sam. It’s not stupid.” Sam gaped at him. Bucky realized too late that Sam might not know that Steve had done the drawing. He cleared his throat. “Or, you know, _someone_ did…”

Sam took on the exact same look that Steve did when he was after something, like an excited Golden Retriever puppy; Bucky couldn’t bear to disappoint him. “Yeah. He’s been working on it for months.”

“Holy shit,” said Sam. “Fuckin’ overachiever. Look at the _wings_.”

“You can’t grow feathers, Sam.”

“Yeah, but _look_ ,” he said, more to himself than to Bucky. His eyes shone. Then a frown crept onto his face. When it touched his eyes, the light went out of them. “Why didn’t he knock? I was right inside all day. Buck? Why… and he didn’t sign it, and the specs aren’t in his handwriting.”

“Sam…”

“He didn’t want me to know.”

Bucky felt his chest tighten. “No.”

“Why not?”

Bucky could think of a number of reasons, from ‘Steve has always been a numbskull,’ to ‘he still feels guilty about Peggy,’ but skirting the real reason would do a disservice to both Sam and Steve.

“He really likes you.” Sam looked stung. Bucky forged ahead. “Steve is old-fashioned. He believes in hand-holding and dancing and love, and right now, he wants to believe in those things with you. He’s always been weird about his own self-image, and weirder about his art; I think he probably thought the drawing—and he—were worth a kiss or even sex, but he needs more than that.”

Sam frowned. “I’ve never thought of him as a one-night stand,” he said.

“So prove it to him,” said Bucky.

“I made him breakfast!”

“He’s kind of an idiot.”

“So what do I do?”

“Tell him how you feel,” said Bucky.

Sam pursed his lips and went back to chopping onions. Bucky nudged him. Sam sighed. He raised his watering eyes to gaze at the drawing once more, then turned to Bucky and nodded.

 

Steve went into the restaurant three times that week and managed to miss Sam every time. Clint and Natasha were the only Avengers technically allowed inside; he didn’t dare try again after Fury caught him skulking around the bar on Wednesday afternoon, and threatened to test Tony’s newest AI tech on him. This didn’t stop Steve from waiting for Bucky outside the kitchen door at 4am on Friday with a box of donuts, however.

Bucky pulled up on his bike, unlocked the door, and swept past Steve into the restaurant. Steve leaned against the counter while Bucky started a pot of coffee and held out the box of donuts when Bucky reached for them. Bucky didn’t speak until he had downed a cup of coffee and two bearclaws.

“‘Morning,” he said.

“Where’s Sam been?”

“I’m great, thanks for asking. He’s been avoiding you,” said Bucky.

“Oh.” Steve stared at the floor. Bucky rolled his eyes, boosted himself up onto Sam’s prep station, and cleared his throat. Steve glanced up at Bucky, followed Bucky’s extended index finger upwards, and saw the drawing still hanging on the wall. His eyes widened.

“He loves it,” said Bucky, his voice soft. “More so because you drew it.”

“How did he know?”

“He’s not stupid,” Bucky lied.

“But if he likes it, why is he avoiding me?”

“Because he likes _you_ , Steve.”

“He wants me, Bucky. It’s not the same thing.”

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive.” Steve looked wary. “Steve, he took you in when you were on the run. He flirts with you all the time. He’s just afraid to tell you, because of Peggy and because you’re from the 1940s. It would help if you told him how you feel.”

“I did!”

“It would have been more effective if you signed the picture. Look, you remember how long Peggy had to wait for you to catch on?”

“I should have seen it earlier.”

“Yeah. But she still loved you, and you and Sam will still lo—like each other. You have to talk about it.” 

Steve put on an apron. He helped Bucky bake the day’s bread and start the curried chicken noodle soup for lunch. When Sam came in the front door several hours later with a cheery, shouted, “hello,” Steve ducked out the kitchen door.

 

Sam strode into the kitchen just as Steve’s shoe disappeared around the doorframe. He dropped a paper bag in front of Bucky and slapped him on the back. “Double chocolate chip, no nuts,” he said. Bucky grunted. “What’s wrong?” Sam sounded like he was ready for a Serious Talk.

“Not hungry,” said Bucky.

“You’re always hungry.” Sam gasped. Bucky rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Aw, man, you got donuts?” Bucky heard him cross the room and pull the box from the trashcan. “And you didn’t save me any?”

“Sorry, super soldier. Big appetite.” Sam snorted and took opened his mouth to press the issue, so Bucky changed the subject. “You’ve been avoiding Steve.”

“Hey, man, not this morning. I’m exhausted. I spent all last night on the phone with Rhodey, trying to talk Clint out of accepting a suicide mission in Somalia,” said Sam.

“Hm. Talk to Steve. I don’t want to have to punch you, Wilson.”

Sam grimaced and busied himself with cooking something in a small saucepan. Bucky stopped slicing bread to watch him. Sam stared into the swirling contents of the saucepan and a smirk crept across his face. “I thought you didn’t fight Steve’s fights for him,” he said, his voice dripping self-satisfaction, as though he hadn’t spent five minutes searching for his response.

“No, but I do fight my own. I’m tired of working your lovesick cooking into the menu. Your béchamel is clumping, by the way,” said Bucky, and nodded to the saucepan.

 

Before he could go home, Steve had to deal with Dr. Doom. He was in a foul mood when they got back to the tower, as were Clint and Bruce, so rather than engaging in Thor and Tony’s celebratory drinking, the three of them returned to their apartments. Clint and Steve parted ways in their lounge with a shared look. Inside his apartment, Steve stripped off the Captain America suit, poured some rubbing alcohol on his cuts, and got into the shower.

12 blocks away, Sam got out of the shower and rooted around in his closet for a shirt that would show off his abs.

Steve threw on a pair of tight jeans and a powder-blue t-shirt. He withdrew a bottle of cologne from a padded box and applied it to his neck and wrists, and shrugged on his leather jacket.

The walk was a blur; in a heartbeat, Steve stood at the foot of the stairs that lead to Sam’s apartment. The sounds of the street pressed at his eardrums and the wind nipped at him through his jacket. He took a deep breath and started up the stairs.

Sam threw another shirt on the growing discard pile. He considered confronting Steve in nothing but his boxers, decided that might send the wrong message, and resumed the hunt. Finally, he settled on jeans and a deep-purple button-down. He tucked a condom in his pocket, just in case, took one last look in the mirror, and shut off the bedroom light. In the entryway, Sam did some jumping jacks the burn off the nervous energy rattling his bones. With a deep breath, he pushed open the front door.  
On the other side stood Steve Rogers, hand raised to knock.


	10. What Everyone Already Knows

They gaped at each other. Sam opened his mouth without really realizing it and said, “come on in.” His ears were blocked, and the words hit his brain muffled and slow.

Steve’s voice, on the other hand, rang baritone like a church bell. “Were you—I mean—I can come back later,” he said.

“No! No.” Sam shook his head. The ocean drained from his head and the lead weights fell from his limbs. He stepped aside. “I was just… checking the mail.” It wasn’t until Steve stepped through the door, shoulder brushing Sam’s chest as he passed, that Sam snapped back to reality.

Sam shut the front door too hard, led Steve into the living room, and gestured to the couch. Steve sat. “Do you want some water? Or I have milk, or apple juice, or some beer, I think.”

“I’m fine, thanks,” said Steve.

“Right.” Sam sat on the couch and pressed himself into the armrest, as far from Steve as he could get without squatting on the other side of the room. “So.”

“Haven’t seen you around lately,” said Steve.

“Well, you know. Work’s been hell.”

“I miss jogging with you.”

Sam felt his chest tighten, and a flock of sharp-clawed birds took up residency in his stomach, but he forced himself to laugh. “You just miss running circles around me.” His antiperspirant was not working properly; sweat droplets ran down the side of his body.

“I liked the bit where you took your shirt off, too.”

They locked eyes. Steve was pink from the roots of his hair to the collar of his t-shirt. Sam wanted to know how far that blush went. “Steve,” he said. It came out choked.  
Steve stood, and his knees clattered against the coffee table. “I should go.” He started to edge away. Sam rose and caught Steve’s wrist between his thumb and pointer finger, not to restrain him, but to break the awful barrier between them. Steve froze, but did not look at Sam.

Sam took a deep breath. “Look, Steve. I know in your day it was really taboo for guys, especially a black guy and a white guy, to date, and I know you’re tolerant but I totally understand if you still have an issue with the idea of being with a guy yourself. And I know I sleep around, but I really like you so it’s not like that, and you _flirted_ , you ass, and I made you breakfast, and — mmhph!”

Steve yanked his hand free and pressed it over Sam’s mouth, muffling the end of Sam’s ramble. Sam’s eyes grew wide. “You and your mouth, I swear,” said Steve. “Give someone else a turn, huh?” Sam nodded. Steve moved his hand to cup Sam’s jaw and traced tiny circles over Sam’s cheekbone with his thumb.

Sam cleared his throat. “So, um, I guess…” 

Steve leaned in. “Shut up, Wilson.”

Steve lips touched Sam’s. Sam could feel him trembling through the kiss. Sam kissed back, closed-mouth, chaste, afraid to push it and lose what he had.

Steve opened his mouth. The kisses became desperate and sloppy and hot. Steve moved his hand to the back of Sam’s neck and tugged him closer; a moment later he gave a frustrated grunt, wrapped an arm around Sam’s waist, and pulled Sam’s body flush against his own. Sam traced Steve’s lower lip with his tongue; Steve nibbled Sam’s lip and Sam felt his knees turn to jelly.

It was Sam who finally broke the kiss. He tried to ignore his increasingly tight pants, but the sight of Steve, flushed and breathing heavily, made that difficult.

“Maybe we should sit and talk about this,” said Sam with what he considered remarkable restraint.

“Or maybe we should move to the bedroom,” said Steve. Before Sam could respond, Steve scooped him up and carried him, bridal-style, to the bedroom.


	11. Nat has a few Drinks

Clint rolled off the couch and landed face-first in his 16” Hawaiian pizza with extra cheese. He reached up and felt around the coffee table for his beer. He found it, gave it a shake, and threw it across the room; he could tell by the weight that it was empty. Clint ran a quick mental calculation and reached the conclusion that he was out of alcohol. This was remarkably bad timing: he was starting to remember.

The night before, Clint came home with takeout from Natasha’s favorite Indian restaurant. She spent her usual half-hour poking fun at Clint’s saag paneer, pressing forkfuls of chicken phall into his face and laughing when he flinched away. Together, they knocked back a bottle of scotch. Clint consumed the majority of it when he made the mistake of challenging Natasha to scotch pong.

When the food was gone, they curled up to watch _Mr. and Mrs. Smith_. Natasha laid her head on Clint’s chest. He could smell the coconut oil she used in her hair and her fruity chapstick mingled with sweat from her afternoon yoga practice. He knew that if he never moved, if he and Natasha stayed tangled together and shaking each other with their laughter forever, he could be happy.

Tony liked to joke that Clint’s superpower was fucking up. Clint was inclined to agree.

Onscreen, Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt fought for control of a bullet-ridden minivan. Natasha yelled instructions at the screen in Russian, which bled into insults when the characters ignored her. She finally gave up with a frustrated harrumph. Clint nudged her. She tilted her head back to look at him.

He kissed her.

At first, she kissed back. Clint almost believed in his own good luck, which surprised him so much that he opened his eyes in time to watch Natasha rock back on her heels and slap him. He reached for her. “Natasha…”

She rolled off the couch, landed on her feet, and took a fighting stance. Clint looked at the floor and held his hands out, palms up, to demonstrate that he was not a threat.

“Get out,” she said, loudly enough that he could hear her.

“C’mon, Nat. I’m sorry.” Clint looked up so that he could read her lips and she wouldn’t have to shout. Natasha was crying.

“Get. Out,” she said. 

Clint got out.

 

Natasha reported for duty the next day so that she could punch things. She did her job, she avoided Clint, and when they captured Von Doom and entrusted him Reed Richards and his high-tech supervillain prison, Natasha went home and drank Tony Stark under the table.

 

She was still tipsy when she sat down at the bar a few hours later. Fury took one look at her and ducked into the kitchen. Bucky emerged moments later, drying his hands on a dishtowel. Natasha waved him over and demanded a Long Island Iced Tea.

“You’re bleeding,” he noted.

“Probably,” she said.

“Do you want to do something about it?”

“How bad is it?”

“Split lip. Gash above your left eye, which is black, by the way.”

“Huh. My drink?”

“I’m not getting you wasted, Natasha.”

She stood. “Fine. I’ll go find someone who will.”

Bucky reached across the bar and grabbed her arm. She twisted and tried to throw him. He spun in the opposite direction, pulling her off balance, a task that would have been near impossible if she hadn’t already had quite a bit to drink. Her breath stunk of mead; Bucky was glad, because sober, Natasha would have flipped him over the bar and broken every bone in his body.

“Sit down,” he said. He let the Winter Soldier into his voice and eyes, just a touch of unfeeling frost around the edges to accentuate his words. Natasha sat. Bucky grabbed the first aid kit they kept by the mini-fridge, vaulted the bar, and took the stool next to Natasha. Then he started shaking.

Pain radiated from his solar plexus; he felt like there was an elephant sitting on his chest; his vision tunneled and dimmed. Then the memories hit, fuzzy at first and then sharp as tacks pricking at his nervous system and scratching at the soft underbelly of his psyche: waking up with no arm, men peering at him, orders in his ear; and then less organized, just flashes of images and sound: cold falling pressure the mask running the train car in 1940 Steve’s body in the river Steve’s face when he said he would not fightSteve’sfaceSteve’sfaceSteve’sfa—

There was warm pressure on his body. Bucky whirled in his mind until it was front and center. He pressed every molecule of his being towards the warmth until it swam into focus and he could pinpoint the sensation in his hand and discern each of Natasha’s fingers laced with his own. He became aware that she was speaking, repeating one long phrase over and over:

“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. You are sitting at the bar of a restaurant that you co-own with Sam Wilson, James Rhodes, and Nick Fury. You are safe.”  
For a long time, Bucky just focused on Natasha’s voice and the sensation of her hand in his. He trudged to the present through a slick of thick peanut butter, and she held his hand every step of the way. When he blinked the horror from his eyes and looked up, he found Fury hovering on the other side of the bar with a glass of water.

“Thanks, boss,” he said. Fury handed him the water, shared a look with Natasha, and moved down the bar to serve other customers.

“Thank you,” said Bucky as soon as he set down the empty glass.

Natasha let go of his hand. Bucky mourned the loss. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault. What happened to you?”

She hesitated like she wanted to say something else. Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Doctor Doom,” she said.

“That was what, four hours ago? It was on television.”

“There were some guys harassing this little girl in the alley outside. She was maybe 16. The cuts must’ve opened up when I beat them senseless.”

“C’mere,” said Bucky. He removed alcohol wipes and antibiotics from the first aid kit and held them up expectantly. Natasha rolled her eyes, but leaned a little closer.  
There were bits of gravel and some dirt in the cut on Natasha’s forehead. Bucky scrubbed at it with an alcohol wipe, and then applied antibiotic cream liberally. It must have stung like a bitch, but Natasha looked bored; that is, until he produced a bandage, which she grabbed and tore into little pieces.

“It needs to breathe,” she said.

Bucky decided that, for his own safety, he shouldn’t argue. “Do you want some ice for the eye?” She shook her head. “So. 16. Weren’t you 16 when—”

“When my life of espionage began? Yeah.”

“--when you met Clint.”

She stared at the back wall, her eyes unfocused. Bucky reached across the bar and grabbed two shot glasses and the first bottle he found, which turned out to be coconut rum. He poured them each a shot.

“Nat.” She gave him a sharp glance, saw the drink, and raised an eyebrow. “You get one,” he said, and held up a single finger for emphasis. Natasha threw back her shot.

“Are you drunk because of him?”

She gave him an empty smile. “What, a girl can’t have fun on a Friday night?” Her hand snaked towards Bucky’s shot, but he scooped it up before she could reach it.

“I’d hate to see not-fun,” he said.

Natasha glared at him. He took the shot.

“Fuck it,” she said. “I’m not great at interpersonal relationships, and Clint wants me to be. I did the mature thing and got drunk.”

“Did he say that?”

Natasha’s mouth scrunched up. “He strongly implied as much.”

Bucky poured her another shot. “Maybe he doesn’t want that, though. I’d take you as you are any day of the week.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew everything Clint knows.”

“Try me,” said Bucky.

Natasha fiddled with her shot for a minute before she drank it. “I’m not a hero, Barnes.”

“I’m not a paragon of noble good deeds myself, Romanov.”

She gave him a lopsided smile, kissed him, slid off her barstool, and walked out of the bar.

Bucky sat stock still until her scent cleared from the air.

 

“Come back to bed, Pep.”

“Do _you_ want to do this paperwork?”

“Just for five minutes.”

“If it’s only going to take five minutes, Tony, you don’t need me.”

Tony muttered an objection under his breath. Pepper ignored him. She was trying to work Tony’s latest upgrades to the suit into the company budget, but Tony wasn’t having any of it; he wedged himself onto the couch, between Pepper and a stack of data printouts.

“Pepper,” he whined.

“No. Move.”

Pepper’s phone buzzed under Tony’s ass. He leapt up. Pepper picked up her phone, read the text, and frowned at the screen.

“You need to go,” she said.

“You’ll recall that this is my apartment, in my tower,” said Tony.

“ _You’ll_ recall that I decide whether or not you have sex this week.”

Tony went white and fled to the balcony, wrapped only in a sheet.

“JARVIS, lock Tony out and tint the windows,” said Pepper.

“Gladly, ma’am.” Like all good domestic help, JARVIS deferred to his mistress above all others. Pepper waited until the windows were almost black before she went to get Natasha.

Natasha was leaning against the wall to the left of the front door. Pepper took her hand and led her through the penthouse to the couch, and shoved all of the paperwork to the floor to make room for Natasha. Natasha sat and drew her knees up to her chest.

“So, is he a good kisser?” Natasha stared at the floor, eyes glazed over, and did not answer. “Natasha. You cannot text to say that you kissed Bucky and need to talk and then just shut down." Pepper snapped twice just in front of Natasha’s nose. “Natasha!”

“I’m fine,” said Natasha.

“Bullshit. You reek of alcohol and you made an unplanned sexual advance outside the context of a mission.”

“I got drunk.”

“You don’t _get_ that drunk,” said Pepper. Natasha’s blank gaze remained fixed on the floor three feet in front of her.

Pepper sighed. She leveraged herself off the couch and went to get two glasses of water. When she got back, Natasha was laying on the couch, curled in the fetal position.

“I love him.”

“Bucky?”

“Clint.”

“Oh. Yes,” said Pepper.

“I don’t want to.”

Pepper settled onto the couch and pulled Natasha’s head onto her lap. She stroked Natasha’s hair until Natasha fell asleep, and then sent Tony a text:

_Find somewhere else to stay tonight. – PP_


	12. How to Complicate a Relatively Simple Situation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Wade's boxes make an appearance.
> 
> Also, the earlier declaimer about the ASL in this chapter applies. The grammar and syntax has been changed around and simplified for non-speakers. If you speak ASL, please understand that this is not meant to be a direct transcription of the signs, but a conveyance of core meaning.

Wade was rooting for some above-the-shirt action and was rather put out when Natasha didn’t even give Bucky a chance to kiss back.

{Hey, isn’t that Barton’s girl?}

[Dude, stop drooling.]

{I thought we were working on looking cool this week? This is not cool.}

[Who’s thinking about Barnes and Romanov doing the nasty?]

Wade lifted the edge of his mask and wiped the drool off his chin with the back of his hand. “My bad.”

[Gross.]

{High five!}

“Right? Hey, isn’t that Barton’s girl?”

{I literally just said that.}

[She might not appreciate the use of the possessive. Don’t want to get our face kicked in again.]

{It heals.}

[Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. Do we need to go over how nerve endings work?]

{Hang on, what’s he doing?}

Wade stared at his iPhone. His fingers flew as he re-phrased his text message. That finished, he hummed a self-satisfied tune of his own composition. 

[Bad idea.]

{She’ll kill us.}

[Seriously, cut it out.]

Wade ignored the boxes and hit “send.” The message popped up onscreen; the boxes groaned.

_Hey, Birdman, sorry about Romanov and Barnes. Drinks later? –WW_

{At least he didn’t ask Barton to sleep with him.}

He tucked his phone away and added Barton to his mental “to do” list.

 

Clint was sitting on his bed, fiddling with one of Natasha’s charcoal-grey eye pencils, when his phone went *bing!*. He launched himself to his feet and opened the message, the fingers of his free hand crossed behind his back.

_Hey, Birdman, sorry about Romanov and Barnes. Drinks later? –WW_

“The fuck?”

Clint sank back onto the mattress.

_Who are you, and how did you get this number? –CB_

_Deadpool. I found it in Natasha’s phone when I was looking through it the other day. –WW_

_So about those drinks… –WW_

Clint’s indignation at the idea of Wade Wilson having his number succumbed to the wave of nausea rising in his stomach. His hands shook. _What do you mean, ‘sorry about Romanov and Barnes’?—CB_

He drew his knees up to his chest and waited. Searing heat climbed up his arms into his shoulders and chest. He thought he might lose his breakfast. Finally, his phone chimed, and kept chiming. 

_Oh, fuck. I didn’t want to be the one to tell you this. –WW_

_She kissed him. –WW_

_I assumed it was a thing and maybe you knew already? –WW_

_Anyway, sorry, man. –WW_

_If you’re going to kill someone, don’t kill me. –WW_

_To be clear, that’s a joke. You couldn’t kill me. –WW_

Clint threw his phone across the room.

 

Clint ordered a pepperoni pizza, and then he called Rhodey. It went straight to voicemail.

“Shit. Hi. You told me last night to call if I decided to accept that mission in Somalia? Well, I’m calling. See you in a few months, maybe.”

Rhodey all but kicked down his apartment door ten minutes later. Clint stopped packing his suitcase to go yell at him.

“That’s my door!”

“Yes,” said Rhodey, calmly. 

“I need it!”

“You won’t need it if you’re dead. Sit down.” Rhodey gestured to the couch. Clint gave him the middle finger and stalked back into the bedroom to finish packing. Rhodey followed.

Clint made a show of digging around in his bag for his pistol. Rhodey pulled his own from his waistband and leveled it at Clint’s foot.

“Sit down,” said Rhodey.

“Or what? You’ll shoot my foot off?”

“Don’t push me.”

Clint sat, but turned away from Rhodey so that his bad ear was facing the other man and he couldn’t possibly read Rhodey’s lips. Several minutes passed. Nothing happened. Clint risked a glance over his shoulder. Rhodey removed one of Clint’s t-shirts from the suitcase and used his pocketknife to cut the sleeves off. Most of Clint’s favorites already lay, ruined, in a pile beside the suitcase.

Clint vaulted across the bed and tackled Rhodey to the floor. Rhodey held his knife to Clint’s throat.

“Let’s talk,” said Rhodey.

Clint considered his unarmed state, crawled off of Rhodey, offered him a hand up, and followed him into the kitchen. Rhodey helped himself to a beer from the refrigerator before sitting down at the kitchen table opposite to Clint.

 _I thought we had this discussion,_ Rhodey signed.

_Yesterday._

_You are not going to accept this mission because of Natasha._

_No. I am accepting it because of Bucky._

Rhodey reached across the table and slapped him. _Moron._

_Fuck you. She doesn’t need me anymore, and the mission is important._

_She will always need you._

_No. She has someone else._

_Bucky wants her, Clint. You know that doesn’t mean he has her._

_She kissed him._

_So you’re jealous?_

_No!_ A small light above the kitchen counter started flashing. _I need to get that, it’s the pizza._

Clint returned with the pizza several minutes later. He took a piece for himself and then set it on the table. Rhodey shut the lid of the box and drummed his fingers until Clint finished his slice and looked back at him.

 _So,_ Rhodey signed, _you’re jealous._

_I want Natasha to be happy. I also want to do my job. Now both those things can happen at once._

_You’re jealous and you won’t admit it._

_I’m not jealous. Come help me pack._

Rhodey followed him back to his bedroom, but he didn’t help him pack. _You’re jealous,_ he signed again.

Clint sent him out to buy more shirts.

 

Bucky Barnes was having a mental breakdown.

Because Steve Rogers was his best friend, he was having a mental breakdown under a pile of soft blankets. It helped a little. So did the hot cocoa that Steve kept handing him.

“I love her,” he moaned into the mattress.

“You love your DS, Bucky. You need to calm down,” said Steve.

“She _kissed_ me.”

“She’s a very good kisser, but Bucky, really listen to me this time, _you are not in love with Natasha_.”

“Fuck you,” said Bucky. 

“You missed the boat on that one.”

Bucky slammed his fist—the metal one—into the wall behind Steve’s bed. Steve reached over, took hold of Bucky’s arm, and twisted it back until Bucky rolled over. Steve released Bucky’s arm only to grab him by the hair and drag him out from under the blankets. Bucky was annoyed to find the Steve hadn’t moved from his cross-legged seat beside Bucky on the bed or even lost his neutral expression.

“Don’t,” said Steve.

Bucky tore out of Steve’s grasp and stood. He darted for the bedroom door, but Steve got there first. Bucky pushed him into the door. Steve shoved back.

“What the _hell_ are you doing, Buck?”

“I don’t know!” They stood frozen. Bucky’s vision blurred. He raised his hand to his face and felt tears. He turned away in shame. Steve took a shuddering breath and laid a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky sank to the floor. 

“I don’t know,” Bucky repeated. “Just… _Jesus_ Steve, all I want is for you to be happy. That’s all I ever wanted. Sure, I wanted you to be happy”—his voice broke—“with me. But you’re happy. Natasha isn’t. Clint doesn’t make her happy.”

Steve sat down with a thump and pulled Bucky into his chest, just as Bucky had done with Steve so many times when they were children. Bucky tensed. Steve held him down and stroked his hair until Bucky relaxed into his arms.

“No one can make Natasha happy,” said Steve. “That’s not how it works.”

 

Natasha threw a butter knife at Tony. He squawked and ran back outside. Pepper passed her another one.

“I hate men,” said Natasha.

“We could run away and get married and get a herd of cats,” said Pepper.

“You’re already engaged.”

“My fiancé has retreated to the balcony. If we make a break for it now, we can be at the airport before he thinks it’s safe to come in again.”

“Too bad you’re straight.”

“Too bad you’re a girl. More carbs?”

Natasha nodded, and Pepper passed over the platter they had stacked high with various baked goods. The cinnamon rolls were gone, but there were still a couple of croissants. Natasha took one and slathered it with butter and raspberry jam.

“I could just fuck him,” she said around a mouthful of flaky nirvana.

Pepper looked up from piling whipped cream on a scone. “I thought you tried that once?”

“I didn’t love him then.”

“You could talk to him.”

The croissant suddenly tasted like asphalt. Natasha forced it down and said, “That sounded like much better advice when we were giving it to Wade.”

“How’s that going, by the way?”

“No idea. I brought him to distract you guys while I told Bucky I couldn’t be with him.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

Pepper handed Natasha her Bloody Mary. Natasha drained it and munched on the celery garnish. Pepper started rifling through the objects on the table. She picked up the plate of pastries, set it down, shoved a pile of papers off the table, shook an empty popcorn bag, made a face, and then shoved her hand between the armrest of the couch and the cushion on which she sat. Natasha lifted butt up when Pepper motioned for her to do so, and sat still while Pepper splayed across her lap to dig around in the opposite side of the couch. With a whoop, Pepper came up holding Natasha’s Razr. Before Natasha could process what was going on, Pepper darted across the room and typed furiously on the tiny keypad.

“Pepper, I swear to Christ….”

Pepper tossed Natasha her phone, pulled her own out of her pocket, and started texting again. Natasha opened the last sent message on her phone. 

_To: Clint_  
 _We need to talk. My place, tonight. Bring ice cream. –NR._

“This doesn’t even sound like me.”

Pepper’s knees bumped against Natasha’s. “Let’s go,” she said.

Natasha flipped her phone closed and looked up. Pepper’s hand was outstretched. “Do I have a choice?”

“No. We have a meeting to attend,” said Pepper.


	13. The Fourth Meeting

Fury gave Steve a dirty look when he walked in to the restaurant. Steve strode towards the bar, ready to explain the situation, but Sam appeared at his side and squeezed his hand. Fury disappeared into the kitchen.

“C’mon,” said Sam. “They’re already here.”

Steve let Sam lead him to a booth in the far corner. Natasha sat with her head in her hands, staring at the table. Pepper had her arm around Natasha’s shoulders and was whispering something into her hair. When she saw Steve, she let go of Natasha and slid out of the booth. Steve dropped Sam’s hand and took Pepper’s place.

“Natasha?”

Natasha turned her head to look at him. Her chin trembled. Steve pulled her into his chest. She did not cry, but her shoulders started to shake. Sam and Pepper took the opposite seats.

“Before we start, I want to establish that the goal of this meeting is not to interfere in anyone’s life. We are here to support Natasha and help her find the strength to talk to Clint and Bucky.” She glared at Steve and Sam in turn. “Our opinions do not matter. If you can’t keep your mouth shut, or if your friendship with Bucky is going to come into this, leave now.”

Steve reached across the table and grasped Sam’s hand.

“We’re good,” he said. Sam nodded.

“Good. I just have some quick ground rules. Nothing leaves this table, no one gets to insult people who aren’t here, unless that person is Tony and I think it’s funny, and no drinking.”

Natasha shifted. Steve lifted his chin just in time to avoid a collision with her head as it swung upwards.

“I didn’t agree to that,” she said.

Pepper’s expression stayed perfectly neutral, except for the corner of her mouth, which quirked upwards. It was terrifying. Steve pressed himself against the booth, as far from Pepper as he could get. Sam inched away.

“It’s not up for debate. No alcohol,” said Pepper.

Natasha and Pepper stared at each other. Steve could swear he saw sparks dancing between the two of them, licking the tabletop, threatening to ignite anything foolish enough to get close. And then, without any other indication that anything had changed, Natasha leaned back against him and rested her head against his bicep. 

“Fine,” she said.

“Who do you want to do first?”

“Wait, what?”

“Shut up, Sam. Natasha?”

Natasha lifted herself from Steve’s embrace. He glanced over in surprise and found himself looking into her eyes. The vulnerability had gone out of them, replaced by business-like coolness.

This wasn’t Natasha. It was the Black Widow.

“You’re not trying to assassinate him,” said Pepper.

Black Widow’s mouth softened, her shoulders relaxed, and calm radiated from her core into her eyes; just like that, Natasha was back.

“Bucky,” she said. Steve realized what was happening and braced himself. Serving as Natasha’s practice Bucky was going to hurt. “I’m sorry I kissed you.” Sam whistled. Everyone ignored him. “I don’t think of you… you’re not Clint. And even if you were—I can’t do this with you, Steve. Sorry.”

Steve opened his mouth to comfort her somehow, or to tell her that he could do better. She shook her head.

“It’s not you. I wouldn’t be able to let you down like that, Rogers,” she said. She gave him a broken, child-like smile. 

“Use Sam,” said Pepper.

Natasha turned to Sam. He cleared his throat. “So to be clear, you kissed Barnes?”

“Shut up,” said Pepper.

Natasha started again. “Bucky, I’m sorry I kissed you, but this can’t go anywhere. I can’t be tied down. You understand, don’t you?” Sam gave her a blank look. “I can’t have a home. I have to belong everywhere and nowhere. It’s the job.”

Pepper jabbed Sam in the ribs.

“Ow! What?”

“Say what Bucky would say,” said Pepper.

“How the hell am I supposed to know what Bucky would say?”

Steve’s stomach twisted. Anything Sam said would be wrong. He would plead, or act indignant, or get angry. Steve knew Bucky like none of them did. And because Steve loved Natasha like a little sister, because he wouldn’t lie to her even if he could without her seeing straight through it, he had to prepare her for exactly what was going to happen when she had this conversation with Bucky. No matter how much it hurt him.

“You _do_ have a home,” he said. Pepper and Sam stared at him. Natasha looked anywhere else.

“Not for long,” said Natasha.

“Even if you give Barton this same speech, it won’t be enough to change that. You know that, Natasha.”

“Don’t.”

“Steve and Pepper and Sam and Bruce and the rest of them aren’t going to let you go as easily as Clint or I. They won’t understand. They can’t.” The words were ground glass in his mouth.

“I know,’” said Natasha.

Steve ached to reach for her and hold her down and never let her go. Instead, he found her gaze and held it. Despite what he said in the safety of Bucky’s voice, he did understand.

“What are you going to tell Clint?” he asked. 

Natasha coughed and shook herself, and they moved on. Later, when Sam asked Steve what the exchange meant, he played dumb. No sense getting anyone up in arms over what they couldn’t change. 

 

Clint let himself into Natasha’s apartment at 7pm. The cat, Liho, wound itself around Clint’s legs. He followed it into the kitchen and opened a can of tuna for it. Liho mewed before going to town on the fish. Clint knelt and scratched the cat behind the ears.

“She’ll kill me if she finds out I fed you. You know she can’t keep you,” said Clint.

Liho purred and pressed into his hand. Clint sighed and stood up. He snagged his shopping bag off the counter and made for the living room. 

“Nat?”

There was no response, but Clint wasn’t really expecting one; Natasha’s jacket wasn’t on its hook by the door. Clint sat down on the green loveseat to wait. Liho wandered in and curled up at his feet.

Clint took the pint of Phish Food from the bag. For Natasha, there was a pint of Cherry Garcia, and a pint of Cookie Dough he intended to offer as an additional peace-offering. He ate slowly, around the little chocolate fish. When the ice cream was gone, he started in on the chocolates.

Liho stretched and hopped up on the couch beside Clint. Clint reached for the television remote. It was underneath a piece of paper. Clint tossed the paper aside, did a double take, and dived for it.

He hit his head on the coffee table.

“Fuck.”

The note was in front of his nose. It was upside-down, however, and his arms were wedged underneath him. Clint wiggled cautiously to one side, unpinned one arm, and gave a victory whoop, whereupon he crashed the rest of the way onto the floor.

The collision of his body with the carpet created a puff of air that flipped the note over. If he squinted, Clint could just make it out without moving.

_Clint—  
I’m sorry, but I had to get out while I could._

“Fuck,” he said again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not crying, _you're_ crying.


	14. Everyone's lives turn into a bad Romance Novel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the long hiatus, I was having health issues (whee!). I'm back to my usual self, though, and we're closing in on the end of this adventure, so I should be updating pretty soon. Thank you all for your patience.

Natasha was staring at the departures board at JFK International when the tears came. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes and swallowed hard, but they leaked out anyway. She gritted her teeth and wondered where, exactly, everything had gone wrong. Clint was in love with her, her friends were the type to come after her, and she was _crying_.

“I hear Caracas is nice this time of year.”

Natasha recognized the voice. Apparently, today was not her day.

“I’ll add it to my list of places not to go,” she said. If she did not look at him, he might go away or at least shut the hell up.

“He wouldn’t think to look in Iowa.”

She rolled her eyes. “Unlike some people, Clint is smart enough not to come looking.”

“I hadn’t pegged him as the type to think his actions through beforehand. I’m surprised I got here first.”

“He knows me better than you do.”

“Bullshit. I know you better than anyone.”

Her frustration turned her to face him, or at least that’s what she told herself. It had nothing to do with needing support, or being afraid, or wanting to see his stupid face one last time before she fled into the unknown. “If you knew me at all, you would have left me alone.”

Bucky studied her. Natasha narrowed her eyes.

“You don’t see it,” he said.

She swung for his face. He caught her fist with his metal hand; his flat, impassive expression didn’t shift. Natasha yanked her arm free and stormed away, only to stop short when she looked back and saw he was still following her halfway across the concourse. Bucky continued as though he hadn’t been interrupted.

“You seem to have this weird little complex going on, so let me clarify something for you. No one cares about your past. It’s very noble that you’re trying to redeem yourself, it is, but none of your friends hate you for what you’ve done. Clint doesn’t look at you and see a KGB assassin; he looks at you and sees Nat.”

“This isn’t about what anyone”—

“Shut up for a minute, will you? You’re as bad as Steve.” Bucky stared her down until she rolled her eyes but motioned for him to go on. “Clint sees you as Nat. Nothing more, nothing less. And I know you don’t believe me, but you need someone like that in your life.”

Natasha fought the urge to scream a string of profanities. Instead, she took a deep breath and said, in the calmest voice she could muster, “That’s rich coming from you, _Winter Soldier_."

He tensed. Natasha braced herself for a blow.

Bucky hugged her.

She fought, but he only embraced her tighter until the strings inside her snapped and she couldn’t hold her own body weight anymore. She sagged against him. He traced circles over her back and with one hand and ran the other through her hair; Natasha might kill him for this on another day, but today she cried into his chest.

“You’re ruining my shirt,” he said, sometime later.

“Suck it up, Barnes.”

He pulled back and caught her eyes. “I understand why you want to leave.”

“So why are you stopping me?”

He shrugged. “I’m not. Hell, I’ll pay for your plane ticket. I just thought you should get the facts from an impartial bystander.”

“So you nominated yourself?”

“I figured I was more impartial than Steve.”

“Steve hasn’t kissed me lately.”

“I wasn’t the one doing the kissing.”

Natasha stuck out her tongue. Bucky smiled and held out his hand, and Natasha took it without thinking.

“I’m not the only one with a glaring, nonsensical guilt complex,” she said.

“You’re the only one going to Caracas, however.”

“I hate you.”

Bucky led her through the airport and into a waiting taxi. She curled against him; before she talked to Clint, before everything blew up in her face again, she would allow herself this small comfort. They were halfway back to the tower when he murmured into her hair, “I love you too, Natasha.”

 

Clint sat with his head pressed against the window, staring out into the night. Liho was curled up on his lap. He didn’t have the heart to kick the cat out, although Natasha was gone and he didn’t like cats. In a sappy, clichéd way, he wanted to keep it as a reminder of sorts. Currently, the only things saving his life from becoming a bad romance movie were the facts that it wasn’t raining, and there wasn’t a Jason Mraz song playing. 

Right on cue, the sky split open.

Clint watched the rain fall and wallowed in self-pity. A taxi cab pulled up to Stark tower; two people climbed out and made a dash for the front door. Clint squinted at them, but they had hoods pulled up over their hair, and they disappeared under the awning before he could make out their faces.

 

“We need to talk about this before I see Clint,” said Natasha.

Bucky leaned against the side of the tower and quirked an eyebrow. “About what?”

“About”—she gestured between them—“ _this_.”

“Oh. Nothing to talk about.”

“I kissed you!”

“Yes.”

“And you like me.” Her voice carried an accusatory edge.

“Again, yes.” He held up a hand to silence her before she could reply. “Sam and Steve came to see me after your meeting this afternoon. They told me what happened, though they wouldn’t tell me exactly what you said, and Sam assured me that he will tear me a new one if I cause you any more emotional turmoil.” Natasha scowled. Bucky continued. “Then, Steve made Sam leave the room so that he could comfort me, which sounded nice until he said, ‘you understand what she needs to do,’ and followed Sam out. I wallowed for two minutes, realized what Steve was talking about, and decided to find you.”

“Why, so you could win me over?”

“I’m not stupid, Natasha, I know a lost cause when I see one.”

Natasha chewed on her lower lip, but didn’t say anything.

“I came to tell you that you don’t have to leave.”

For a long time, they just stared at each other. Natasha dropped her gaze to the ground and scuffed at the pavement with her boot. “I’m not leaving because of you.”

“I know. You’re an idiot.”

Bucky thought that Natasha would hit him. Instead, she sighed and nodded. “Sorry I kissed you.”

“Sorry I fell for you.”

She smiled, but it was empty. “At least one of you morons is apologizing.”

Natasha ducked into the tower. When the last traces of coconut and shampoo cleared from the air, Bucky stepped back into the rain and hailed a cab to take him home.


	15. A Pint of Cherry Garcia

“I’m worried about him, Steve.”

“He knows better than to accept that mission.”

“No he doesn’t. That’s what I’m telling you. He spent this afternoon packing, and he’s telling Natasha tonight. At this point I don’t think even she can change his mind.”

“Wait. He went to see her?”

“Yeah, she asked him to.”

“Shit. Give me your phone.”

"Why?"

"To call Natasha."

" _Why?_ "

"Because I need to talk to her about something."

“Use yours.”

“She won’t answer if she knows it’s me.” 

“What? Why?”

“Rhodey, _give me your phone._ ”

 

Natasha’s phone buzzed. She switched it off without looking at the front screen; either it was someone who knew what was happening, in which case she didn’t have the energy to deal with them, or it was Johnny Storm, who would put her in a foul mood by flirting with her. She took a calming breath and pressed the elevator button. Assuming Clint read the text Pepper sent and complied with its demands, Natasha had two minutes in which to figure out what to say. It wasn’t nearly enough time.

 

"Hey, Nat? This is Steve. Look, if you get this, I'm really sorry about Clint, but you can't go. I know I said... and I get it, I really do, but I- we- we all need you, and I think maybe you need us, too. Especially right now. Call me."

 

Steve threw Rhodey’s phone across the room and cursed. It hit a wall and cracked; Rhodey retrieved it, dusted it off, and tucked it back into his pocket with a sigh.

 

Clint had four hours to get to JFK, smuggle all his gear through security, and board a redeye flight to Somalia. Rather than exiting the apartment and hailing a cab, however, he peeled himself off the window and dug the carton of Cherry Garcia out of the freezer. The spoon was an inch from his mouth when he felt the muzzle of a gun against his head and hot breath against his ear.

“Eat my ice cream and you’re a dead man, Barton.”

Moving slowly, Clint set the carton and the spoon on the counter in front of him. He felt a sharp jerk on the back of his t-shirt and stepped away from the counter, his hands up. He did not turn when the gun dropped away from his head, but remained perfectly still.

Natasha stepped in front of him.

 _Go sit on the couch,_ she signed.

Clint did as he was told. A minute later, she followed, ice cream in one hand and spoon in the other, and settled down on the opposite end of the couch. Clint repositioned himself so they were both sitting cross-legged, facing each other.

“Thought you were gone,” he said.

She scooped some Cherry Garcia into her mouth and nodded.

“Do you have any idea how confusing it is to get a text from someone asking you to come bearing ice cream, and then, when you get there, there’s a note implying that they’ve left the country?”

She shrugged. “Pepper sent that text.”

Something boiled up in Clint’s stomach. Natasha knew Sign Language when he came back from the mission where he lost his hearing. He knew she learned it for him, though she never said so, and when they were alone she always signed, or else pressed close and shaped her words against his skin. There was something _wrong_ about being forced to read her lips.

“Right. Well, I just came by to let you know that I’m leaving, so feel free to stay here.” He flinched at his words. They were clipped and too controlling; he saw this in Natasha’s blazing eyes.

“I didn’t know I needed permission to stay here.” She stood. “Maybe you should just go.”

A picture of Natasha, crying at his funeral and apologizing for every time she kicked him out of bed and every date they did not go on, flashed through his mind. For a moment, he was tempted to storm out of the apartment and board the plane without so much as a word, let her hear the truth from intelligence reports and his death certificate. It would be vindication. 

Except Natasha wouldn’t cry. She would damn him to hell and spit on his grave. She would eulogize him as a stupid, selfish bastard. Clint would go to Somalia and die, and Natasha would keep being Natasha; the only thing that changed if Clint walked out was that he would never kiss her again.

“I love you,” he said.

Natasha stared at him, blank-faced.

“I love you, and I’m going to Somalia. The mission is… it’s not something you come back from. I’m going to die. I just thought one of it should say it first.” He paused to think. “There’s a pint of Cookie Dough in the freezer. I’m leaving my Walther here for you; it’s under my bed, along with a couple clips and a knife. Don’t touch the blade, it’s got some Chituari blood on it and it tends to eat holes in organic matter. And give the cat to Bruce. He’ll miss me, even if no one else will, so he’ll need someone.” 

That was everything. Clint checked his watch to avoid Natasha’s eyes and stood. Before he turned to go, he kissed the top of her head. She didn’t move.

On the way to the door, Clint tripped over the cat. He resigned himself to lying on the floor and working through the embarrassment and the pain shooting through his knee, and was doing quite well on the pain when he felt a gentle tug on his hair.

Expecting Liho, Clint lifted his face out of the carpet and looked up. Natasha squatted in front of him.

 _You don’t have to go,_ she signed. 

Clint rolled over onto his back and patted the space beside him. Natasha curled up next to him and put her head on his chest. They were asleep within ten minutes.

When Clint woke up in the morning, Natasha was still there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, ASL is transcribed to give meaning rather than as a direct translation to make reading easier for those who do not speak ASL.
> 
> One chapter to go.


	16. Every End is a new Beginning

“Is that a hickey?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You let him give you a _hickey?_ ”

“Pepper. I’m not kidding.”

“Jesus Christ, what did you _do?_ ”

“What do you mean, what did I do?”

“Well, clearly you were making up for something.”

Natasha raised her eyebrows and pressed her lips together. Pepper shrugged.

“Fine, I’ll just assume that you bit him while you were going down on him, and that was payback.”

“I’m actually good in bed, for your information.”

“Nope, sorry. I’ve already decided.”

“…fine. I punched him in the face this morning.”

“You punch him all the time.”

“I slept with him immediately following the punch. I think he thought it was break-up sex or something. He doesn’t do well with mixed signals. Anyway, he got all wide-eyed and mopey, so I asked what would convince him that I’m staying.”

“So…”

“So he ‘marked me as his own’.” She added air-quotes for emphasis.

“It’s a little over-the-top.”

“That’s Clint.”

“Nice hickey,” said Sam as he slid into the booth next to Pepper.

Natasha raised a hand to her neck. “Did I do that poorly with the makeup?”

Pepper shook her head. “It’s just… I guess he was really into it, huh?”

“You look like you’ve been hit with a pole,” Sam observed.

“I’ll kill him.”

Sam laughed. “At least he’s not a super-soldier. Here, look…” Sam lifted up the hem of his shirt. A line of bruises so dark purple they were almost black wound up from the top of his hipbone to just under his ribcage. “And this isn’t even him in a possessive mood. These are just run-of-the-mill.”

Natasha choked on a sip of tea. Between coughs she said, “Please never tell me anything about your sex life again.”

“Oh, c’mon, Steve’s a good-looking guy.”

Natasha and Pepper exchanged a glance.

“ _Anyway,_ ” said Pepper, “I was tinkering in the lab last night”—

“You tinker?”

“— and I happened to stumble upon a really good perfume formula.” She took a glass vial out of her jacket pocket and rolled it across the table to Natasha. “Does it bother you that I tinker, Wilson?”

“What? No! I’m just surprised. Not because you’re a woman or anything...”

Natasha uncapped the vial and dabbed some of the perfume on her wrist, which she raised to her nose for a sniff. “What’s it called?”

“I was thinking _Blood of the Enemy_."

“Perfect. Cheesy, but perfect.”

Sam inched away from Pepper. Natasha grinned at him with all of her teeth. When he looked sufficiently terrified, she turned her attention to applying dabs of perfume at the base of her throat and behind her ears. “Thanks, Pep.”

“Let me know when you run out. I’ve got more.”

Natasha nodded and turned her gaze back to Sam. He flinched. “What?”

“How’s Bucky?”

Sam’s shoulders, tense and scrunched up beside his ears, loosened. “He’s… he just needs a couple of days. But he’ll be fine. Steve took him out for pizza when he got home and then proceeded to lose him in Manhattan, but he showed up around eleven with a stupid grin on his face and some guy’s number, so I guess he’s okay.”

Natasha felt her face flush, felt the adrenaline kick in, and then Sam was rubbing at a bright red mark on his face.

Pepper provided words to accompany Natasha’s slap, which was good, because Natasha was seething and had to focus on not hurting any fragile people. “You let him go get _laid_? What the hell is wrong with you?”

Sam scowled. “We’re not idiots.”

“Clearly you are, if you managed to lose him long enough for him to have rebound sex and—”

“He didn’t have sex!”

“But you just said…”

“That he came back with a guy’s number. Steve took him out at ten, they got to the pizza place at 10:15, and Steve lost him at 10:30. Assuming Bucky can’t apparate or some shit, he had 15 minutes, tops, to find this guy. And he hasn’t got any…” he pointed to Natasha’s neck and then to his own torso. Pepper made a face. “Anyway, Steve talked to him and he swears it’s not that.”

“Right, _sure_ , ‘cause he can’t lie to Steve,” said Pepper.

Natasha and Sam exchanged a glace, and then both looked at Pepper. She rolled her eyes.

“ _I_ have trouble lying to Steve,” said Natasha.

“So what was it, if it wasn’t rebound sex?”

“He won’t tell me,” said Sam.

“Hi, Steve,” said Natasha.

“Wha—”

“Because it’s none of your business. Hi, Nat.”

“How’d you know he was there?” asked Sam.

“International spy,” said Pepper and Natasha in unison. 

“How’s Clint?” said Steve, as he slid into the booth beside Natasha.

“Fine. We still have to talk about that Somalia stunt he tried to pull, but he’s fine,” said Natasha. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth; for once, she let it bloom across her face. 

“You look happy, Nat.”

The truth of it and its uncanniness made them all squirm in their seats until Sam asked how to best apply liquid eyeliner and they forged on ahead. They brought out books, they bantered, they tried and failed to get Steve drunk. They measured time by Johnny Storm’s attempts to impress women by lighting mixed drinks on fire; he was averaging four rejections an hour when Pepper glanced at her watch and cursed. She left for a board meeting, and Sam ducked out not long after her—he was going to get drinks with Rhodey. Finally, only Steve and Natasha remained, resolutely munching their way through a pile of chicken fingers.

“You wouldn’t let him go off with a bad guy, would you?”

Steve reached over and wiped some honey-mustard off the corner of Natasha’s mouth. “You know I wouldn’t.”

“And he really didn’t… that wouldn’t be good for him, Steve.”

“I promise. This guy is special. You would like him, Nat.”

“Steve…”

“Hey. Nat. Look at me.”

Steve slipped his fingers under Natasha’s chin and tilted it up. She was startled, like she always was, by the sharp line of his jaw and the softness of the expressions of skinny kid in a giant body. He chuckled.

When Steve knew something that no one else knew, and when it was a good and beautiful thing, he looked like a puppy with a new toy. The joy sparked across his skin and was reflected in his eyes, and behind it, far back in those too-blue irises, was a whole sea of prideful superiority at knowing first. Somehow it came off as endearing rather than pretentious and aggravating.

“What?” she asked.

“ _What_ what?”

“What do you know?”

He let go of her chin and slid out of the booth. “It’s all gonna work out, that’s all. See you later.”

“Don’t be a dick,” she said, but he was already halfway across the restaurant. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swore I would never write a series, but here I am, writing a series. Look for chapter 1 of the as-yet-untitled sequel, coming soon!


End file.
